In Through The Out Door
by paradocs666
Summary: You only get one chance at the afterlife and you've had yours. So when you're offered a choice, you take the in-between and you start anew . . . and you hope that they let you go.
1. Prologue, Part 1: Beginning the End

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the creation of Joss Whedon; South of Nowhere is the creation of Thomas W. Lynch. I own neither.

This is an AU crossover of BtVS and South of Nowhere. The only BtVS character included is Buffy Summers. Spencer Carlin will be the predominant SoN character. There are no vampires, demons, witches etc . . . though there is a subtle hint of the supernatural – and Buffy still possesses the abilities of a Slayer.

Spencer Carlin and Ashley Davies have never met – nor will they at any time.

Rated R for language and violence.

Will portray women in romantic relationships.

Will portray men and women in romantic relationships.

This is my last fanfic'. I'm having fun, playing with ideas and letting two pretty cool characters do most of the work for me.

* * *

><p>Hello,<p>

Seems that a few people have had a little look - thank you. Not normal - I know. It's about me and happy endings. Want one for Buffy and, this time, Spencer's the happy pill. Figured, if this is my last, gotta do what Whedon hasn't and give Buffy her forever. Arrogance? Hell yeah.

This is a long story that flits back in time and then forward where it will continue to a resolution. If the pairing isn't obvious, it's Buffy/Spencer . . . Eventually. But definitely before the end.

Comments and crit are very appreciated. Not into public comments? Send me an e-mail at:

paradocs. 1967 yahoo .ca (you know - minus the spaces)

Sláinte

And Happy Days,

Shawn

* * *

><p>I watched the world float<p>

To the dark side of the moon

After all I knew it had to be

Something to do with you

I really don't mind what happens now and then

As long as you'll be my friend at the end.

If I go crazy then will you still

Call me Superman

If I'm alive and well, will you be

There a-holding my hand

I'll keep you by my side

With my superhuman might

Kryptonite.

(3 Doors Down)

* * *

><p>June 7th, 2011<p>

Boston

* * *

><p>She kicks the can and it clatters – once, twice, three times – before it stops, an inch from the red brick wall. The noise sounds rude in this alley, now a memorial for the last victim of the O'Coughlan family; Agent Damian Cross of the FBI died here. A week before Cross' execution, two of Boston's finest had been tortured by the O'Coughlans for information . . . info about her – because she'd made them nervous. They called her <em>Miongháire <em>_Báis_ – Death Smiling. Kinda stupid, really, since she rarely killed anything anymore: a bottle of whiskey now and then; a heavy bag when she felt the need. Not that she hadn't been tempted, especially after Damian.

She sighs and lays the single white rose on the pavement beside the other flowers and cards and cold lightless candles. She hears agent Frost exhale slowly at the mouth of the alley; smells the smoke from his filterless Camel.

"You ready, Summers?"

Buffy smiles – for Damian – and joins Frost. "Yep. You know, we coulda said goodbye at the office."

Frost tilts his head up to the grey sky and blows out a cloud of something equally as sick and grey. He coughs once and tosses the stub of the cigarette to the ground. "Yeah. Didn't want you gettin' all weepy on me in front of Richards and Dom." He shoves his large rough hands into the pockets of his trench coat. "You sure about this? DC's like a pool full of piranhas and you–" he smirks, "– wouldn't take much to wear you down to bones."

Buffy smiles again, and means it; Frost's alright. She holds out her hand. "Been there before, you know?"

"Yeah, but you were a shark then."

She smirks. "Still am. And, yeah, I'm sure. I need some down time and . . ."

Frost shakes her hand; his touch is warm and firm. "Spencer, right? Must be a helluva girl."

"Yep. Helluva a friend, too."

* * *

><p>She drives to Washington. She bought a new Mini Coop a week ago because it's small, like her, and it's great for city driving – especially when you have a permanent crosshairs tattooed on the back of your head – and she really does have a tattoo of crosshairs over her C4 vertebra; it was a thing. She'd sent her bike – a Ducati Streetfighter she'd purchased six months ago – ahead with a friend; she's hoping she can find a race or two before winter – and before she's too 'on' the radar; it's not like she races at a track.<p>

She'd bought her first bike in LA – a Kawasaki Ninja – and, after some digging, found a race. She'd finished second to last but she'd lived. After that, it was just a matter of time and experience – on a track with a pro – and finding more races and spending more money before she'd become better than competent. She'd started placing higher; started winning; started earning a name. And, yeah, maybe it was a little like cheating – because no one, on or off the track, had reflexes, balance and control like her: maybe a cat; she'd always wondered. Racing was her fire and her passion. It was her brief and explosive moment of life and sensation. And it wasn't like there was anyone around to tell her that there was little difference in trying to off yourself with pills or by launching yourself across the unpredictable terrain of a race course at 258 feet per second.

She needs this break. She's spent the better part of her life protecting people from death or hunting down those who dealt the death. She's worked private security – the _Twilight Girls_ ; yeah, the name? wasn't her idea – and she knows how to say the word tragedy in eight languages. But it was her choice – all of it. You can't make yourself a target and not expect to be shot; or stabbed; or broken: she knows this. At least, she does right now. Sometimes, though, she remembers what she's left behind: grave markers and memorials of one; scattered ashes and dry eyes. She's always expected the expected; she wishes she'd learned to see the unexpected. But she's self–centred by nature and it cost her almost everything.

* * *

><p>She stops once, in Newark, for gas and coffee. It's all she needs to keep going. Her suite at the Jefferson is waiting and she doesn't see the point in eating on the go when she can dine in her room, maybe – probably – with a bottle of wine. She'd inherited sixty percent of the <em>Twilight Girls<em> assets, the legacies of five of her girls – including her sister, Eve, and her best friend, Siobhan; half had gone into the bank and the other half she'd invested – rather, Siobhan's brother, Nicholas, had done the investing. She has plans for the revenue from those investments, some selfish and some altruistic; she isn't going to feel guilty about living comfortably; having things that other people have, like houses and cars and TV's. She's earned this break. And what isn't hers, not really, she's going to use wisely; at least, she hopes she will.

* * *

><p>It's funny how little things become so poignant. Tracy, the young woman who serves Buffy her coffee, has very blue eyes and a sweetly nervous smile. She keeps glancing at Buffy's eyes, trying to be surreptitious, as she makes the Espresso; she blushes when she's caught and Buffy smiles; shakes a little when Buffy's fingers brush against her palm as Buffy's paying – leaving a folded ten in her hand and telling her to keep the change.<p>

It's sweet and it inflates her ego a little – in a good way, though, because she really does appreciate the attention, it's so normal.

Buffy knows that she's evolved in the two years since she met Spencer Carlin. Some aspects of the evolution were subtle and kind, others – not so much. Eight months of therapy have allowed her to realize how she's changed and find something of herself again. And that's all she's wanted: an identity and a little peace.

And an opportunity to, finally, admit to Spencer the most basic truths:

'You're my best friend and I love you.'


	2. I Am The Highway, Part 1

Friends and liars don't wait for me,

'Cause I'll get on all by myself.

I put millions of miles under my heels;

And still too close to you I feel.

I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway.

I am not your carpet, I am the sky.

I am not your blowing wind, I am the lightning.

I am not your autumn moon, I am the night… the night.

(Audioslave)

* * *

><p>Rewind: 1 year, 8 months, 27 days . . .<p>

September 11th, 2009

Washington, DC

* * *

><p>It's 2:00 pm on a Friday afternoon. She's in the J. Edgar Hoover building looking for an Agent Moriss. Her name tag dangles from the stiff lapel of her leather jacket; she tries to make it as obvious as possible - not that she's paranoid, but some of these Feds can be. She hadn't needed to see the X-Files to know this. Actually, she really hadn't needed to see the X-Files at all, especially every damned episode from one to a gazillion, or whatever. Better than the OC marathon, she'll admit that. She hears a voice calling out –<p>

"Hey, Moriss; got something for ya."

- and catches a glimpse of the source. She stuffs her hands in her pockets - her fingers tend to clench into small fists when she's in places like these: cramped and bustling with men and women who carry weapons and take themselves too damned seriously. She sidles between a desk and an older, tired looking guy who probably doesn't see much field work anymore, and stops in front of the desk occupied by the man who had called out for Agent Moriss; he's lounging in his cheap office chair; his legs are stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles and his left hands cup the back of his neck, fingers massaging muscle. He glances at her - a quick but surgical appraisal that impresses her.

Buffy leans against the edge of the desk and smiles. "Hi. I'm looking for Agent Moriss?"

"Hey, Moriss-"

A stocky man with very short black hair and a thick neck looks away from the file he's reading and raises a thin eyebrow. "I did hear you the first time, Coop."

Coop shakes his head and points at her. "Gotta a visitor."

Agent Moriss' glance is equally quick, equally thorough and equally dismissive. "Have a seat. I'll with you in a few minutes." His eyes are already back on the contents of the file he has open on his surprisingly organised desk.

Buffy shrugs and sits in one of the three empty chairs that line the wall on her right. She leans back, closes her eyes and sighs.

'Least they coulda done is offered me a coffee.'

She slips into the grey, the in-between inside her head; a place where the sharpness of emotion is smothered by a dull and affectless fog. It reminds of her of Demerol highs without the stupid. Numb is ok. She can handle numb; because, if it isn't numb, it's everything all at once: the fury of motion and the need to rage and laughter without joy and regret without change and memories that pop into her head like she's just caught a glimpse of a film strip of a past life. And memories ripping her open and begging her to feel them again; to remember the tears and touches and faces frozen before . . .

Her eyes pop open and her muscles tense. Agent Moriss is speaking.

". . . anyone call up about a B. Summers? We had a meeting at," Moriss glances at his watch, "2:00."

Coop shrugs. "Haven't heard anything. This the guy the Director sent to 'lend a hand' with the Carlin case?"

Moriss gets up from his chair and stretches. "Yes. He's supposed to be some kind of security consultant. Haven't read the file yet; thought I'd meet him first."

Buffy gets up and crosses over to aisle between Moriss' and Coop's desks. "Uh, it's Buffy Summers, and - pretty sure - I'm a she."

Moriss and Coop stare at her.

"You're Summers?" Moriss asks.

Buffy scratches behind her ear and smiles facetiously. "Ah-huh." She lifts her name tag and tilts it towards him. "See - _Buffy Summers_."

Coop's fighting hard not to grin. "_You're_ Summers?" Buffy nods, once, and rolls her eyes. "You think the Director's having some fun with ya, Phil?"

Agent Moriss mutters, "Hang on a moment, would you? I need to make a call."

Buffy leans against Coop's desk while Agent Moriss calls the Director. "Hello, it's Agent Moriss . . . . . Yes, uh, she did . . . . . One moment, sir." Moriss puts the phone on speaker and hangs up the hand set. "We're live, sir."

The voice from the speaker lacks defined tones, but the emotive qualities are obvious. "Summers, you there?"

"Yep, I'm here," Buffy answers. "Getting a little antsy; haven't had my caffeine fix yet."

"Well, let's see if we can fix that. Agent Cooper, you there?"

"Yes, sir," Cooper answers.

"Good. I'm assuming you've both had a chance to look over Summers' file?"

The pause between question and answer is obvious. Buffy smirks and quietly sing-songs, "Someone's in trouble."

Agent Moriss frowns at her and answers the Director. "No, sir, not yet. I was hoping to-"

The Director interrupts. "You disappoint me, agents. Here's what you're going to do. You will take Miss Summers to the Black Cross and buy her whatever she desires, on your dime. You will bring her file with you and conduct your interview there. And you will listen to her. Are we clear Agent Moriss? Agent Cooper?"

Moriss and Cooper both answer with a slightly defeated, "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Buffy, despite their apparent incompetence, Moriss and Cooper are highly qualified. I do hope you'll allow them an opportunity to prove their ability before passing judgement."

"It's all good," Buffy answers. "I'd rather do this somewhere that's not here anyway. Too many guns and not enough exits."

"Excellent. Call me after you've been acquainted; I'll clear some time so we can finalize the paperwork."

"Sure. 'Bye Director."

* * *

><p>Buffy makes two stops before the bar: one expected; the other not: both necessary.<p>

The first stop is at the security gate. She turns in her visitors badge and receives in return a plastic tray containing the items she'd been required to leave behind. The first item is a hard plastic holster; she clips it to her belt just behind her right hip. Next is a Sig Sauer (she's cleaned it more times than she's actually used it in live fire); she slaps the magazine in, loads a round and switches the safety on. She holsters her weapon, makes sure it's locked and lets her jacket fall over it. Two throwing knives follow; she slides these into the sheaths she's had sewn into the inside of jacket and secures them. Last, a stiletto with a four inch blade and wire bound gripped; this is sheathed at her ankle. She pulls down the cuff of her jeans and stands.

The next stop is a fluke. Buffy had just stepped out of the John Edgar Building and is breathing in the fresh air when, without warning, she bolts across the busy road and beelines towards a coffee cart. Agent Moriss and Agent Cooper watch, incredulously, as she becomes a blur of motion, weaving around vehicles and then pedestrians. They follow, more cautiously; by the time they reach her, Don, the coffee vendor - everyone knows Don - is passing Summers a Styrofoam cup.

"One double long Espresso."

"How much?" Buffy asks.

"Six dollars."

Buffy hands him a ten and lifts the cup to her lips. She waves off the change.

"_Grazie_," Don says with a smile.

Buffy lowers the cup and answers, "_Hai salvato la mia vita_." She nods at the two agents. "Needed my fix. We'll get along much better, now that I'm caffeinated." The agents look even more bewildered than they did when she was re-arming herself.

'Maybe it's just as well they haven't read my file yet - credibility and all.'

"So, the Black Boss - that a bar or something?"

Agent Moriss glances at her; his eyes linger on hers just a little too long. "The Black Cross. And, yes, it is a bar. It's not far; we can walk it."

Buffy pulls her round, black aviators from her inside pocket, flips them open and slides them on. Her eyes tend to do this colour shift - from light brown to green and every mix between - when she's in natural light. There's nothing mystical about the change but it does tend to freak people. "Cool. I like bars." She smiles and sips her espresso.

* * *

><p>When Buffy enters the Black Cross, it's apparent that the bar is a haunt for G-men. She can almost smell cordite and gun metal; can almost see the ghosts of past agents, bent over the wooden tables, weary and haunted by the weight of consequence; or, laughing and raising glasses in celebration of consequences they've eluded. There are histories of families broken and marriages gone to shit; longer histories of grand kids and retirement. She can smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke; expects the grey cloud of fumes in the artificial light. It's not a dump: yeah, the wooden floor has obviously been well trodden, but it's clean and shiny; the long bar has obviously held up more than one man or woman too far gone in their drink, but it's still waiting to support a few more leaden arms and tired heads.<p>

She receives further evidence that this is, indeed, an FBI haunt when Moriss and Cooper greet the bartender casually.

"Afternoon, Rocky."

Buffy almost smirks at the name but then she remembers the saying about pots and houses of sand; something like that.

Moriss and Cooper ask for coffee and seem to be waiting for Buffy to add her own order. Her attention is focused on the wall opposite the bar; frozen on the photos that hang there. Some of the photos are old, like from back when people used Polaroids, some are new; most of the subjects are men; all of the subjects are dead: it's a tribute. For a moment she feels dizzy, because she finds two familiar faces: Agent Conrad Watkins and Agent Chloe Black. Buffy had worked with them.

"Summers." Agent Cooper calls her back.

"Uh-huh."

"You want something?"

Buffy turns and approaches the bar. "Yeah. A double . . ." She studies the bottles on the back bar. "A double Macallan, neat and a pint of Kilkenny."

Rocky glances at her and nods. "Have a seat, I'll be right over."

Buffy follows Agent Moriss and Agent Cooper to a booth. On the way, she studies the interior: notes the exits; the doors in the far wall to the left with placards nailed to them indicating the 'Men's' and 'Women's' bathrooms; the dart boards hanging on the right wall near the far corner. She feels a chill, like she's just walked over someone's grave. New cases always start like this.

Moriss and Cooper sit beside each other. Moriss sets his laptop on the table between them and turns it on. Buffy takes off her leather jacket and lays on the seat opposite the agents; her black hooded sweatshirt - it has a yellow smiley face with a bleeding bullet hole in the middle and just above the two round black eyes - follows, leaving her in a thick black tank top. She stretches, smiles at the agents who are, covertly, checking out the mementos of the times she wasn't fast enough - three scars: one from the 9mm that tore through her right shoulder; the through and through on her left bicep; and the pale line across her throat - and her ink: a stylized crow on her right shoulder; an Eyeore on the inside of her left forearm; and a chain of Ankhs - fourteen - around her right wrist.

Her smile becomes a smirk. "There's more but I don't play show and tell on the first date."

Rocky arrives with their beverages and sets them on the table. Buffy digs her wallet from the pocket of her jeans and looks at him curiously.

"The coffees are on the house," Rocky says. "If you're planning on having more, I'll start a tab."

Buffy smiles. "Cool. Thanks. And do you have darts, you know, for the boards?"

Rocky nods. "Yeh. Come on up to the bar and I'll set you up."

Buffy picks up her glass of whiskey and sips a little; smacks her lips. "Mmm." She raises her glass to the agents. "_Eagal dada, fiú amháin an bás_." She doesn't wait for them to raise their cheap ceramic cups of coffee; she throws back the whiskey, rolls the empty glass in her fingers and grins fiercely. "So, while you guys are catching up on the wonderful wacky that is my life, I'm gonna go throw some darts."

She grabs her IPod from her jacket pocket, her pint from the table and leaves them to it.

* * *

><p>She can feel the stare; a short breath through her nose and she smells the cologne Agent Cooper wears. She ignores him and wiggles her body to the music in her ears.<p>

_"In my life, I have seen, people walk into the sea . . ."_

She throws a dart . . . **Thunk**.

_"Just to find memories, plagued by constant misery . . ."_

. . . and another . . . **Thunk**.

_"Their eyes cast down, fixed upon the ground . . ."_

. . . and the last . . . **Thunk**.

__"Their eyes cast down.  
>"I'll keep my eyes fixed on the sun . . ."<em>_

Three triple fives. She's been running the board, one to twenty on triples and back again. She doesn't miss.

__"Shake me down,  
>"Cut my hair on a silver cloud,<br>"Broken sound,  
>"Softly laying on the ground, ooooh . . ."<em>_

She walks up to the dart board and pulls the darts free. She wishes she had more darts so she wouldn't have to make all these trips.

__"Not a lot people left around, ooooh, ooooh  
>"In my past, bittersweet,<br>"There's no love between the sheets,  
>"Taste the blood, broken dreams . . ."<em>_

When she reaches the throw line she turns to the side and faces Agent Cooper.

__"Lonely times indeed,  
>"With eyes cast down,<br>"Fixed upon the ground,  
>"Eyes cast down . . ."<em>_

And throws . . . One . . . **Thunk** . . . two . . . **Thunk** . . . three . . . **Thunk.** Three triple fours.

_"I'll keep my eyes fixed on the sun . . ."_

Buffy pauses the song and pulls the earbuds free. "Need something, Agent Cooper?"

Agent Cooper rubs the corner of his eye and shakes his head. "Yeh, we're done. We have a few questions though."

Buffy shrugs. "Ah-huh. Thought you might."

* * *

><p>Buffy orders another Scotch and pint when she drops off the darts. She's just getting comfortable in her seat across from Moriss and Cooper when Rocky brings her drinks to the table. Before they begin, she throws back her whiskey and sighs contentedly.<p>

"So, you get all you need?" She nods at the laptop.

Agent Moriss leans back in his seat and taps his index finger against the table top; he looks less bewildered.

"We did. Not sure if I understand it, though; why you wanted us to see this. It wasn't necessary; this meeting wasn't even necessary. You've already been assigned to the case."

"Why the hell did you agree to it?" Agent Cooper asks. "Carlin's a twenty three year old AU student with no income."

Buffy picks up her pint. "I wanted you to see the records so you'd know who you were working with. Pretty hard to trust someone when their file's sealed. Which is a nice segue to 'Buffy's Rules'.

"First rule - fear nothing, not even death. The client's life is the priority. Second rule," she swallowed a mouthful of Kilkenny, "no secrets. Never understood you government types and all your secret keeping; seems kinda dumb. Third rule, I work with you; I don't work _for_ anyone - except the client - and I'm not the boss of anyone. You don't like something I do, tell me. Got an idea - say something. Last rule, and it's kind of contradict-y, don't die. I can't watch everyone's back all the time; you can't either. Comes down to me or him, though, I'll make sure he goes down first - preferably alive. I don't like killing people and unless you've got Melinda Gordon's phone number handy, the dead don't talk." Three more swallows from her pint. She waits for questions and shrugs. "You ever heard of a woman named Madeliene de'Winter?"

Agent Moriss stops tapping his fingers. "She's the Chairman of the Board of De'Winter and Associates, a hedge fund company that's said to be worth a pretty penny. She replaced her father when he passed away. There's a lot of speculation right about the future of the company; rumours about De'Winter's health. I've heard that she's planning on selling her shares."

Buffy smiles sadly. "Yeah. Can't really say. I don't think her daughter'll be seeing any of it, though."

Moriss frowns. "Oh? It sounds like you know her personally."

"Not, you know, face to face or anything. She contacted me through my web page about . . . six months ago? We've played e-mail tag and we've talked on the phone. She wanted to know about what I did and then she asked me if I would look after her granddaughter, after she was gone, I mean. After she heard about the attempt on Spencer's life, she called me and asked if I could start the 'looking after' part a bit sooner." Buffy glanced at Moriss and Cooper. "That's why I'm here."

Cooper looks surprised. "The old lady has a heart."

Buffy's glare is quick and piercing. "Yeah, 'the old lady' has a heart. She loves her granddaughter. She's not so fond of Spencer's family; I'm not particularly fond of them myself . . . assholes." She swallows half of the remaining beer in her glass. "I mean, what kind of family disowns you for being gay? And then, after the love of your life's killed and you're in the hospital, doesn't even call - never mind visit?"

"Do you know what happened to Miss Carlin?" Moriss asks.

Buffy shakes her head. "Nope, and I was asked not to pry. Far as I know those records have been sealed. Anyway, so not the point. Right now I'm more interested in keeping Spencer Carlin alive."

Cooper laughs once - short and dry. "Yeh. Might be harder than you think. She doesn't want our protection. We had to fight to have an agent sit outside her damned door."

Buffy finishes her drink and sets the mug down on the table. "I can be very persuasive. And I'm sure as hell not going to let Louis D'Marco add another hit to his list."

Moriss is frowning and tapping his finger against the table again; Cooper looks surprised.

Buffy smiles smugly. "Hey, I know I'm cute but I'm not stupid. Geeze. I know Spencer sat down with a sketch artist. I also know that the DOJ is dying to get their hands on D'Marco and the FBI is planning on using Spencer as bait." Her eyes are cold now; her smile thin and tight. "I've made two promises in my life and I plan to keep them: I promised Madeliene that I would make sure that her granddaughter got to live to make movies and fall in love again; and I promised Ashley Davies that I would find the man who killed her - never promised anyone that I would keep him in one piece, though."

* * *

><p>"Sign here . . . initial here . . . and here . . . and sign here . . ."<p>

Buffy shakes her head as she, yet again, signs her name. The contract is standard, she'd read it from top to bottom, front to back. As she always did now. She hadn't the first time, back in LA when the newly formed but fully functioning _Twilight Girls_ had accepted the first test of their skills; she'd glanced at the small black and white type that had covered the fronts and backs of multiple pages and scribbled her name and initials where she'd been told to. Siobhan, her best friend, had lectured her for an hour about the stupidity of signing _anything _without knowing first what the _anything _was. Buffy had felt pretty stupid. Thankfully, there hadn't been any legal loopholes in that contract.

"Please tell me we're done; I don't think I have enough blood left to sign anything else."

Director Hutchins leans down to sign his own name and laid his pen on the desk. "That's it. I'll have copies made and pass them on to Agent Moriss."

Buffy sighed, happily, and stretched her fingers. "Cool."

The Director went to his chair and sat. "What are your plans?"

Buffy perches on the edge of his desk and smiles; the Director had a new photo of the family - his kid was getting big. "I'd like to meet Spencer. But . . . I need a favour."

The Director's smile was lopsided - like he'd forgotten how to complete the expression. "What's the favour?"

"I need you to pull Spencer's security detail just before I get there but, before they leaves, I need him or her to tell Spencer that there's an emergency - you know, like she's in danger or something." Buffy frowns. "She doesn't own a gun does she?"

"No. I doubt she would use one if it was offered."

"Good, 'cause I didn't bring a vest. Oh, and I'd like Agents Cooper and Moriss with me; she should get to know them and I'll probably need someone to verify that I'm not some psycho chick."

Director Hutchins slowly shakes his head. "Hmph. Don't scare her too bad, Buffy."

He looks across his desk at Cooper and Moriss; both seem a little dazed. He can relate. The first time he'd met Buffy Summers - she'd still had the _Twilight Girls_ at the time - had been in New York during the O'Doherty case. He'd thought that the Attorney General must've been hitting the whiskey a little too hard. He was quick to learn that Summers and the Twilight Girls were everything the Attorney General had promised; his respect for Buffy now is unwavering.

"Phil, Jack, let her do whatever it is that she needs to do and make Miss Carlin's acquaintance. Take tomorrow off - both of you." He stares steadily at Phil Moriss who probably hasn't had a day off since the last Federal election. "On Thursday you can meet with Summers and work out strategy. Remember, anything you need, let me know. This is a priority case."

"Yes, sir," Agent Cooper answered.

Director Hutchins' eyes narrowed. "Phil, I'm not hearing what I want to."

Agent Moriss glanced at the Director and grunted. "Fine. There is an exhibit at the Smithsonian I'd like to see."

* * *

><p>"No, I'm fine, really. Thank you but . . . No, I'm happy with my internet provider, I don't need . . . Look, I hate to be rude, but - 'bye." She hangs up her phone and unplugs it. The majority of the people who call her all want something that she already has and the minority want something that she can't afford.<p>

She looks out her window and down into the courtyard. Four people are gathered; they're talking casually, touching familiarly; they're comfortable in their camaraderie. The twinge in her stomach is fast and sharp. But it's ok. She likes to watch and listen and not interact. She likes being alone. And she remembers that she hasn't been alone for three days. She lifts her head and glares; it's aimless since she doesn't know where the FBI surveillance team is located but she hopes they get the message. She tugs the curtains closed and goes to the kitchen. She pulls the coffee pot from the machine; the bottom is black and tarry; she slams it down on the counter.

"Dammit."

There's a long crack in the glass pot now. And it's not like she can go out for coffee; she's trapped. Alone. She agreed to the 'protective custody' but only for three days. Tomorrow, she's free. She doesn't care if someone wants her dead - and, really, wouldn't they have killed her by now if it were so important to them? She wants to be free to go to school and sit in the _Borealis_ - by herself - and drink and write; watch and listen.

Sometimes it hurts: she'll see a face that reminds her of before or she'll hear a song that recalls a when.  
>Before, when she had friends and wasn't afraid of familiar touches; before, when she shared in touches more intimate and fell asleep warm and safe with whispered 'I love you's promising another day of bliss.<p>

She tosses the coffee pot in the garbage. She fills a glass with ice, grabs a Coke from the fridge and returns to her living room. She's just made herself comfortable on the couch, just poured her Coke, when someone knocks urgently on her door; she growls, gets up and opens the door.

Agent Howard, the FBI agent who covers the 8:00am to 8:00pm shift, is waiting; he looks constipated.

Spencer tries not to glare. "Yes, Agent Howard?"

"I need you to stay inside and lock your door. Stay away from the windows as well. I need to run downstairs for a minute; I won't be long. Ok?"

Spencer feels her stomach cramp. "What's going on? Is everything-"

"Just do as I asked, all right?" Howard doesn't wait for answer, he tugs the door closed; Spencer can hear his heavy steps as he hurries down the hall. She locks the door. Fastens the chain. Her hand is shaking - she's shaking. She backs up and falls on to the couch. She tries, very hard, to remember her breathing exercises; it's much more difficult, trying to relax when you can feel a threat closing.

"I'm not a victim," she whispers. "I'm not a victim, I'm not-"

She screams when her door flies open. She barely registers the tearing of wood; all she can focus on is the woman and the gun - the woman who is now frozen, mid-step, holding a gun that is pointed at Spencer's chest.

* * *

><p>Buffy always gets a kick from kicking down doors - pun intended; not because she's destructive by nature, but for the reaction she gets from whoever's with her. Like now.<p>

"Jesus Christ."

Agent Cooper. She would love to see his face but she really needs to get inside. She lifts her right arm and extends the Sig in her hand. The safety is on and her finger is millimetres from the trigger. She strides into the room and finds her target - who is just rising from her couch.

And she freezes. Because this is impossible and she doesn't believe in ghosts and you can't shoot ghosts anyway, because they're impossible. She can't stall. If this is her first step into insanity, great. She can go to her straight jacket fitting later. She continues walking. Spencer Carlin is quite obviously terrified; she's tensed, ready to bolt. Buffy gets to her first. She holds the muzzle of the gun an inch from Spencer's chest and flatly states, "You're dead."

She really hadn't counted on Spencer fainting.

"Oh-" Buffy tosses the gun on the couch and carefully grabs Spencer before she falls. "-shit."

* * *

><p>Buffy sits on Spencer's coffee table and waits. She'd laid Spencer on the couch and tucked a cushion behind her head. Agent Moriss and Agent Cooper had entered the apartment and now stand by the wall opposite the couch. Neither has said anything; Buffy's grateful. Spencer's eye lids flutter and open; she immediately tenses. So does Buffy. She doesn't believe in ghosts.<p>

So, why does she feel haunted?

Because Buffy has seen eyes like Spencer's before and they were . . . pretty. Spencer Carlin's eyes, though, are unnaturally beautiful: Buffy smells the ocean; feels the morning sun and hears a sleepy voice; sees a world that is too sensual, too lovely, for someone like Buffy.

And Spencer Carlin is obviously alive - so why does Buffy feel haunted?

Spencer speaks; her voice is quiet and a little raspy. "Who are you?" she demands. She's glaring at Buffy.

Buffy links her fingers together and rests them against her stomach. Her Sig is back in its holster. "Buffy Summers. And the guys behind me, uh, the taller guy who looks like he just got out of college is Agent Cooper and the other guy is Agent Moriss. They work for the FBI. Your grandmother sent me."

Spencer frowns and sits. She looks passed the two agents and frowns. "Can I see your ID . . . please?"

Agent Moriss and Agent Cooper both display their FBI identification. Buffy digs her wallet out from her jeans and opens it as well.

"I'm not FBI but they give me this," she taps her DOJ photo ID with her index finger, "when I work with them." She closes her wallet and returns it to her pocket.

Spencer sits up on the couch and presses herself into the corner; she's glaring again. "Why did you break down my door and stick a gun in my face? And tell me that 'I'm dead'? What the hell!"

Buffy shrugged. "'Cause, if you don't let us help, you will be dead."

"And you thought that terrifying me would do what, exactly?"

Buffy rubs her right thumb over the back of her left. She really hadn't expected Spencer to faint. "I heard you wanted to ditch your protection detail, so I thought I'd prove a point."

Spencer rolls her eyes. "And what makes you an expert on any of this?"

"Been doing the protection/investigation thing since I was nineteen?"

"So you've been doing it for what, two or three years? Is that supposed to be comforting?"

Buffy laughs and pulls out her wallet again; she opens it and offers her Driver's Licence. "I'm flattered, really, but I'm twenty eight."

Spencer glances at the Driver's Licence and up to Buffy. "Oh." For a moment she looks lost; then she frowns. "How do you know my Grandmother?" It's almost an accusation.

"Mostly through E-mails; we've talked on the phone a few times, though. When she heard that someone had taken a shot at you, she asked for my help. I said yes."

Spencer bites her bottom lip and shakes her head slowly. "I don't want anyone's help. I want to be able to go to school and anywhere else I feel like going without being watched - like I'm a psych patient out on a day pass." She looks at Buffy defiantly. "And I want my damned door fixed." She tries not to stare as Buffy's eyes change; they're dark green now and devoid of emotion.

"Ok. We obviously can't force you to something you don't want to do. Just like we can't force you to tell us what really happened, you know, that would make someone want to shoot you." Buffy leans in. "'Cause, really? Why would one of the best assassins in the game waste his time with some chick who maybe did, or maybe didn't see something while she was standing outside a cafe? He wouldn't." She notices the fear dawning in Spencer's eyes. "Whatever. Before we leave, though, you should probably say goodbye and stuff." Buffy opens her phone and dials a number. As it rings, she switches to speakerphone.

A young woman answers; her voice is vibrant and honestly pleasant. "Good evening, De'Winter and Associates, how can I help you?"

Buffy grins. "Hi, Miss Waite. It's Buffy Summers; is Madeliene in?"

"Hello, Buffy. She is, she's been waiting for your call. I'll put you through. And, Buffy? In the future, please call me Greta."

"Thank you, Greta."

A moment filled with a tick and a click and another voice speaks. The voice is deep, raspy and tired, a little too raspy and tired, in Buffy's opinion. "Hello."

"Hey, Madeliene, it's Buffy."

Hoarse laughter. "Yes, Buffy, I'm quite aware that it's you."

Buffy chuckles. "Right. My bad. I'm guessing you know we're on speakerphone as well?"

"Yes, dear. Have you contacted Spencer yet?"

Buffy notes that Agent Moriss and Agent Cooper have moved closer; she wishes that she'd turned up the volume on her phone. "That's where I am right now. I guess she's not buying the need for a security detail so . . . I, um, figured you might want to say goodbye or whatever now? Just in case?"

A hoarse sigh and Madeliene speaks. "Spencer, I realize that you're angry with me but I wish you would listen to what Buffy has to say. I would be very displeased if I had to attend your funeral because you have an obstinate and selfish desire to protect yourself from the possible dangers of human interaction. Really, dear, I'm surprised that you can't see the contradiction in your behaviour."

Spencer stares at Buffy; her eyes are angry and hurt, exhibiting the betrayal she feels. "That sounds an awful lot like something mom said when I told her I was gay." The anger is now evident in her voice. "I spent a year living like a prisoner because mom was afraid that I'd do something behind her back. And when Cam' . . ." Her voice falters and she closes her eyes. "When Camille was killed and I was in the hospital – no one came to see me: not Clay or Glen or . . . Dad; not even you."

Madeliene's voice sounds even more tired when she tries to answer. "Spencer, I-"

Spencer's eyes are open again; light and dark swirling in fury. "No! I'm not going to be locked up in a cage again. I'm not. So everyone can just leave, just leave me alone."

Spencer leaps from the couch and disappears down the hall. A second later, a door closes firmly.

Buffy knows that she's missing something important. Some_thing's_, actually: a family history and sealed records. She looks at the phone in her hand. "Um, Spencer went to her room."

"I understand," Madeliene says. "Please, Buffy, don't give up. I realize that I have left you blind in certain regards but suffice it to say, Spencer has suffered too much already. Her mother's stupidity was only the beginning. Spencer has always felt that her family should have supported her, and I have always agreed; instead they tried very hard, even after she left for school, to interfere with her life.

"She met Camille at school. I believe that Camille was the first person to win Spencer's heart. They were together for three years and then, one night while they were returning from celebrating Spencer's birthday, everything went so very wrong.

"My Spencer is broken, Buffy; please, allow her the chance to heal again."

Buffy smiles just because she needs to break the strain of the emotion building and pushing up her throat; she doesn't need to know what she's missing. She can guess. "Hey, not going anywhere; not far anyway. I'll call you when I have more. And, remember, Madeliene, I promised."

"Thank you, dear. I'll be waiting for your call."

* * *

><p>Spencer is pacing in her room. From door to window, from window to door, from door to window. Stop.<p>

From window to door, from door to window, from window to door. Stop.

She's thinking, thinking, thinking – too much.

. . . door to window, from window to door, from door to window.

She tries to focus on something else, like her therapist taught her (her therapist who taught her nothing). The woman at the _Borealis_, with the sinful eyes and sensual strut. She doesn't know the woman's name; doesn't know if she really needs one. It's been a while.

'Think of the eyes.'

The i's. The i's and the o's and the u's. The IOU's. Huh. She doesn't owe anyone anything.

'Think of the eyes.'

She's not sure what colour they are; something dark. But sin isn't always dark. She looks in the mirror, on the inside of her bedroom door, and knows that sin can look blue, too.

'Think of the eyes.'

. . . door to window, from window to door, from door to window. She checks to make sure that her window is locked. Of course it is; it always is.

She's forgotten sinful and dark, now she sees hazel eyes and they're sad and old and cold. Old and sad and cold. Cold and old and sad.

"Stop it."

She can't. She can't stop thinking (thinking, thinking).

Buffy Summer's eyes – old and sad and cold – had been too honest to forget.

_". . . best assassins in the game waste his time with some chick who maybe did, or maybe didn't see something while she was standing outside a cafe? He wouldn't . . ."_

Buffy Summer's is right and _she knows_ – that there's more. Spencer had hoped that if she held the video back, whoever had taken a shot at her would back off.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

_". . . obstinate and selfish desire to protect yourself from the possible dangers of human interaction. Really, dear, I'm surprised that you can't see the contradiction in your behaviour . . ."_

Her Grandmother is right. Spencer heard the subtle implications in her Grandmother's words –

'You're not a child – grow up.'

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

And now she's alone with a broken door and she's about as tough as a mouse and feels as brave as a . . . as a 'Spencer'.

She could have at least had the decency to listen to Buffy Summers – the crazy woman who kicked down her door and scared her to unconsciousness.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

She's not going to cry. She promised. She checks the window to make sure it's locked (again) and goes to the kitchen. She doesn't look at the broken door. She removes a bottle of vodka from the freezer, a wrinkled lime from the fridge and a glass from the cupboard. She cuts the lime into nine wedges, drops a slice into her glass and adds the vodka. She puts everything – including the knife – onto a tray and carries it into the living room.

When she sets the tray down on the coffee table she sees a note, addressed to her.

Spencer,

In case you change your mind (and I really hope you do) here's my number.

202-555-1967

Buffy

Spencer picks up her phone, throws back the vodka, and enters the number.

"Buffy speaking."

"Hi, it's Spencer. I . . . um, could we talk?"

"Sure. When?"

"Whenever's good. I'm still up, so-"

Spencer hears a light knock on her broken door. The door opens and Buffy enters . . . and immediately jumps to explain when she sees Spencer's right eyebrow arch and her lips tense into something that could be a smile but is _so not._

"I couldn't just leave you, you know, with a broken door."

Spencer's eyebrow doesn't lower but her lips relax. "So you decided to spend the night in my hall?"

Buffy shrugs. "Yep. And when was the last time the carpet out there was cleaned 'cause – _eww_."

Spencer shakes her head. "I'm thinking, never? You can sit, you know."

Buffy moves a chair across from Spencer and sits down. The coffee table is between them. Absently, she closes her phone and puts it back in her jacket.

Spencer nods at the vodka bottle on the table. "Would you like a drink?"

Buffy grins. "God, yes. Please."

Spencer nods and goes to the kitchen for another glass. While she's gone, Buffy looks around the room. It's drab and austere. No pictures or plants or anything, really, except the couch, coffee table, two chairs and an old 32" Sharp TV; and – and it's the only piece of furniture that seems to get regular use - a folding banquet table that stands in the corner of the room. Its covered in books and notepads, cameras (two digital and one old school), a digital camcorder (that looks to have been frequently used), a PC and a laptop. She smiles and wonders; she knows that Spencer is a favourite at AU – with the professors, at least.

Spencer sits back on the couch and mixes two drinks. She holds a glass up to Buffy.

"Thanks." Buffy takes the glass and sips a little of the vodka. It's syrupy and shivery cold as it trickles down her throat but when it reaches her stomach she feels a flash of heat and, for a moment, her blood burns. "Damn, I like." Spencer nods. Buffy rolls the glass – left to right and back – between her fingers and thumb. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to know more about this thing . . . uh-" Spencer releases an exasperated breath. "I _want_ to know what the conditions are if I decide to cooperate."

"Ok. I can do that." Buffy grins sheepishly. "Sorry, I'm really sucky with beginnings. The middle and the end, I'm great at. So, why don't we try this: I'll tell you what my conditions are and then we'll negotiate."

Spencer's surprise is evident. "You can do that? I just . . . Don't you have to talk to the FBI first?"

Buffy's eyes meet Spencer's; meet and hold. She wants Spencer to understand that she is completely devoted to the responsibility she has accepted. She wants Spencer to see the truth and know that she will not waver, will not conceal or bend the facts. "I guess this is a good place to start. I don't work for the FBI – I don't work for anyone – other than you. The Director asked me to assist and I agreed; kind of a funny coincidence that your Grandmother had already asked. Or not. Still not sure about that one. Point is, as far as your protection goes, I call the shots. But, the other agents, like the two who were here today, can veto me if I start going into crazy land and, I hope anyway, they'll offer their advice on how to improve things. So, yeah, I can do that."

Spencer has watched the changes in Buffy's eyes again; the light and the dark; the old, the sad and the cold . . .

'Stop it.'

Softly, she asks, "_Who_ are you?"

Buffy is grinning again and Spencer is beginning to feel a little manic from the ups and downs and in-betweens of Buffy's emotions.

Buffy sets her glass on the table, wipes her hand on her thigh and leans forward, hand extended. "Buffy Summers and it's very nice to meet you."

Spencer stares at the offered hand and reaches out to take it in her own. She's almost certain she's smiling, genuinely, for a change; the faint ache in her cheeks confirms her theory. "Spencer Carlin and _I think_ it's nice to meet you too."

Buffy's head tilts back and she laughs.

* * *

><p>Shake Me Down by Cage the Elephant<p> 


End file.
